


A Boy's Best Friend

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, Masturbation, The Quidditch Pitch: Self Pleasure, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-01
Updated: 2006-06-01
Packaged: 2018-10-27 14:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10810590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Harry contemplates his body's changes during a lie-in.





	A Boy's Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

"Oof!"  A pinching pain shot through Harry's groin as he rolled over onto his stomach.  An insistent condition had arisen in the wee hours of the morning, and would not be ignored.  He had been only half-awake, trying to slip back into stupor during a rare chance to sleep in.  With no classes this morning, all he wanted to do was burrow back into the blankets.  Unfortunately, that was out of the question now - the discomfort between his legs left him very much awake.

 

He flopped over onto his back in a rush, and his left hand instinctively moved down to gingerly see if there was any serious damage.  Not knowing if the pain was from his willy or nards, he felt around tenderly.  He was surprised to find that his sleeping togs were bunched up just below the waistband, which must have been the reason for the pinching as he shifted position.  Harry usually awoke with an adolescent erection, typical of teenage boys, and it hadn't had enough room to shift when he did.

 

As he rearranged his pyjamas to ease up the tension, the front of his sleeping trousers sprang up into a domed tent.  Harry flushed at the realization of his situation, and quickly glanced at the bed curtains to ensure none of the others had seen.  No, the curtains were closed against prying eyes.  Keeping one eye on the curtains, lest one of his fellow Gryffindor Third Years try to rouse him, he reached down and unclasped the two small buttons that held the front of his pyjama trousers together.  His erection sprang up, freed from its cotton confines.  Harry gasped slightly as the cooler air sent tiny shivers along his exposed skin.

 

As Harry did often in recent months, he stared in fascination at his nob.  Since earlier that summer, from the first time that he can remember noticing being rigid, Harry was both interested and a bit put off by it.  A couple of times over the summer, when he thought the Dursleys were preoccupied by their own social-climbing endeavors, he would run up to the bathroom, unzip his jeans and stare at it, watching it grow and stand up as he touched it gently with his fingertips.  The silky smoothness of the tip, after he slid back the skin cap half-covering it, was a source of fascination and anxiety to Harry.  He would watch it mesmerized until some small noise in the house broke through the spell and he hurriedly put himself back together.  This was no mean feat for Harry, who had been blessed genetically by his father.  He was grateful that baggy jeans and overhanging shirts were in fashion in the Muggle world.

 

Odd that facing down the memory of Tom Riddle from his diary and the battle with the basilisk terrified him less than the prospect of being caught running his fingers up and down his nob.

 

Looking at it now, lying down in bed, it was not exactly standing up but rather more leaning toward him, almost upside down, seemingly lying on its back just as Harry was.  He wondered why it would be leaning back toward his face, rather than the straight up tent pole that Ron's bedclothes made when a morning Happy Dream overtook him.

 

Oh yes, sharing a dormitory bedroom and shower with four other teenage boys had given Harry an accelerated education into male adolescence.

 

His thoughts turned darker for a moment, wishing as he had many times before that his father were still alive to counsel him.  Especially in the last couple of years, he needed a father figure to teach Harry about the pothole-strewn road to becoming a man, and to whom Harry could ask the myriad questions that seemed to arise every day.  Asking his Uncle Vernon was out of the question, as was trying to figure out if Dudley's warped viewpoint on adolescence was any better than his own.  Perhaps talking to his father's picture would help.  But, not while he was in this condition!  Somehow, a moving picture was disconcerting, almost as if it could look back at you.  And, that image was one that Harry did not want to share with his father!

 

His dick twitched slightly, bobbing up and down, as if waving to get his attention.  "Stop thinking and start paying me attention," it seemed to be saying.  Harry looked down the bed toward the pale, hooded flesh and realized that it was looking back at him.

 

_Ah!_ , he thought, _That's where the phrase 'trouser snake' comes from.  It looks like a cycloptic snake staring at me._   The prospect excited Harry, and he corrected himself, _No, cycloptic_ python _!_   He gently laughed, and thought, _I bet EVERY boy can speak Parseltongue to his own private snake, eh_?  It's something that boys are supposed to be very good at, if you listen to the talk around the shower room.

 

_I wonder if the rumour is true_ , he thought.   _I wonder if that boy from Slytherin actually had a snake tattooed on his willy._   Harry's rod twitched again, as if trying to dislodge any similar thought from Harry's own brain.

 

Harry crunched his stomach, craned his neck and squinted to get a closer look.  He couldn't get his glasses without anyone else awake seeing his hand come out of the curtains, and then they'd know he was awake but staying in bed.  Harry flushed with imagined embarrassment.  That was not something that he wanted to even think about - his bunkmates could be very...inventive...when it came to ragging a mate.

 

After a few moments of staring at the pale blue-green lines of the veins visible through the translucent barrier of his foreskin, he realized just how close his head was to what he had come to sometimes think of as "Little Harry" or "Harry's Wand".  _I could almost stick out my tongue and..._ Harry thought, and then his head jerked back to the pillow and he stared at the underside of the bed's canopy with his eyes wide open.  The thought filled him with both excitement and anxiety at the same time.  _Gods, what am I thinking?_ His heart beat faster.  _Well_ , he thought, excitement overcoming anxiety, _it wouldn't be like doing it to another boy, right?  It's just me, right?  Just like sucking my thumb, right?_

 

_Wrong_ , he thought back quickly.  _It's not at all the same, is it?_

 

He had never been that close to a hard nob, excepting the time that a nude Seamus had woken him from a pre-dawn nightmare, standing next to the bed with a full hard-on.  Seamus' face had showed concern over Harry's yelling and moaning, but (ahem) "Little Seamus" had a mind of its own.  Harry had quickly turned away, assuring Seamus that he was fine now, and he should go back to bed.  Having Little Seamus' glistening head a few centimeters from Harry's face was burned into his memory, it seemed.

 

Definitely, the mental image of a nude, hard Seamus stayed in Harry's mind longer than he would have liked.  But then again, Seamus had been on Harry's mind a great deal since school had stared in September.  Both Seamus and Dean had come back to school with their voices deepened, with a great deal more hair under their arms and between their legs.  It had seemed that in the short months since last term, the Gryffindor boys had been pumped with testosterone.  Seamus in particular had gone through the most dramatic change.  Sometimes it seemed that he was being led around the dorm by his willy, rather than the other way round.  He tended to swagger, not caring if he was in the nuddy, showing off his body and in particular his tackle.

 

_Poor Ron never knows where to look.  And, he looks like he's going to die of embarrassment._   Harry grinned mischievously knowing how they had teased him in the Quidditch locker room, pretending to almost drop their towels following an after-practice shower.  Ron didn't stop flinching for days.  And then Seamus' bunk had started rocking more violently each morning, not caring who was listening to the private moment he was enjoying before throwing open the curtains to start the day.  Ron had been desperate to leave the tower early, choosing to go to breakfast by himself, rather than waiting for the morning show to end, and the other boys to join him.  Staying in bed, or setting out his clothes for the day, while pretending not to notice the moaning and gasping, proved too much for Ron.

 

Even more disconcerting (to both Ron and Harry, although Harry had eventually come round) was the way that Dean had started following Seamus around, staring at whatever Seamus wanted to show off.  It was painfully clear that Dean fancied Seamus, and that he hadn't come to terms with these feelings.  For Seamus' part, he was either oblivious to Dean's intentions (not likely) or simply didn't care who stared at his proudly-displayed wares.  Harry was sure that he turned to face Dean's bunk more times than strictly necessary to navigate around the small dormitory while changing clothes.  Harry was of a mind to speak to him about it.  _It wasn't right_ , he had thought in a rare cross thought of his friend, _Seamus shouldn't tease him like that, knowing that he cares for him._   Harry had been growing up in more ways than even he realized.

 

Later in the semester, it had only gotten worse for Ron's mental state when he realized that Dean didn't always sleep in his own bed.  After once catching Dean creeping out from behind Seamus' bedcurtains in the early morning hours, Ron's face matched his ginger hair every time he saw either of the boys.

 

Harry broke out of his meandering thoughts, and glancing back down toward his feet, realized that his left hand had begun to gently stroke his dick.  He had been touching himself while thinking of Ron.  Again.  _That would send him round the bend for sure_ , Harry thought, filing this away in his "things never to tell Ron" list.  It wouldn't likely be the last time he found himself idly fondling himself while thinking of his boyhood friends.

 

_No_ , he commanded of himself, willing his hands back to his sides.  _I won't let you control me.  If I can overcome Voldemort and Riddle, you are no match.  Think of something else, for gods sake._

 

An image of Ron's birthday cake smeared over his face came to mind.  Followed closely by an image of Harry cleaning it off with his tongue.  _No, something else!_

 

Harry thought of the pretty Asian girl he had seen at the Start of Term Feast, Cho was her name, right?

 

_DEFINITELY not!  Think of something else!_

 

_Ah, here's a good one.  Snape cleaning out a stinking cauldron.  That'll take my mind off things._   But, then Harry noticed how the Snape in his mind grabbed the cauldron stirring rod with both hands, and how those hands slid up and down the smooth wood, lovingly stroking the hard pole...

 

_Oh, gods, no!_

 

_Ah, Quidditch._   Always a great way to distract himself, Harry replayed the last practice match against Slytherin, looking for flaws in his strategy, in his technique.  He remembered with a flush of heat when Malfoy had dropped in front of him, nearly grabbing the Snitch from his fingertips, before flying ahead of him, taunting him.  Harry then remembered how Malfoy's ass was just visible underneath his flapping Quidditch robes.  He remembered how the tight, white fabric stretched over the bunched muscles of Draco's cheeks as he rose slightly off the broomstick to switch leeward position.  He remembered thinking that it almost seemed as if the broomstick itself were sliding in and out...

  _No, no, no!_   _What's wrong with me!?_  

Harry sighed as he realized that both his hands had been commanded back to their positions in his groin.  His insistent situation was apparently not going to change on its own accord.  _There's nothing for it then, but to finish the thing._

 

Relaxing his arms, he stretched down to allow both hands to freely wander over his exposed equipment.  He watched the skin cap roll back and over, back and over, like an alien flower blooming and closing again.  No, not a flower, more like the tip of a caber just before being thrown.  _Yeah_ , thought Harry smirking, _a giant caber.  A giant log of wood._

 

_Oh!  This must be what that exchange student from California was referring to as 'Morning Wood'_.  For a moment, Harry remembered being jealous of the older boy's tanned skin and blond hair when he was introduced to the students during the Sorting Ceremony at the start of school feast.  A wild image flashed into Harry's mind as he wondered if the surfer had any tan lines.

 

Where was his mind these days?  It seemed like all he had been thinking about were other boys' bodies, how much hair they had grown, whether they touched themselves as much as he wanted to touch himself.  He thought he'd faint when he heard Draco joking tell another Slytherin boy to "go on, take a pull" when they were standing side by side in the boy's lavatory.  Harry's hands had very nearly jumped up with a mind of their own to touch the blond boy's pale flesh.  _That had been_ very _close_ , Harry frowned.

 

Harry pulled his hands away from their ministrations, and glanced again at the bedcurtains, with a sudden fear of being found out.  It would be bad enough having to endure the smirks and looks from Ron, Neville, Dean and Seamus, but the Slytherins' taunts that "Harry's a tosser" would finally ring all too true.  He would pass out from sheer embarrassment, he knew it.

 

Another insistent twitch from his open pyjamas fly brought him back to the moment.  "Sod that," he whispered, and grabbed the straining rod with both hands and gave a squeeze.  Electric impulses shot through his body, from the tips of his wild hair down to his flexed toes.  His breathing stopped for a moment that seemed to last for hours, until he began gasping for air.  _Bloody hell_ , he thought.  _Why don't I do this more often?_

 

Despite his fascination, polishing his nob was not something at which Harry was either experienced or accomplished.  But, he always managed to get the job done.  This morning was different, somehow.  Harry wanted to enjoy the moment, to savor the illicit experience, knowing that scant meters away, four other teenage boys slept.

 

Or, did they?  How did Harry know that they weren't touching themselves, too?  Or, in Seamus and Dean's case, touching each other?  That last thought lingered awhile in Harry's mind, unbidden images of the two boys' hands touching each other's pole in crystal clarity.  _The contrast in skin color must be remarkable to watch_ , he thought while pulling a little more forcefully on his nob.

 

The thought that he might not be alone was exciting to Harry, although he didn't care to know why at the moment.  His hands increased their rhythm, pulling deeper and longer strokes as the smooth skin slid over the underlying hardness.  His left hand reached down slightly, and his fingertips ran along the skin of the twins, causing his thighs to tense and flex with excitement.

 

At this point, Harry's hands worked by themselves, unrestrained by anxiety and worries.  They knew what they were doing, and didn't want the brain to get in the way.  This was not something that the brain was particularly adept at, while his teenage boy's hands knew this like the backs of...well...themselves.

 

But, the tiny part of Harry not usurped by the primitive instincts grabbing control of his brain pleaded, _Don't cry out, don't yell, don't groan.  Please, gods, just try to keep quiet._   His right hand broke away from it's rhythmic stroking long enough to shove the corner of his pillow in his mouth.

 

As the images of his dormmates' bodies and pleasure-giving flashed through his fevered brain, his back arched as the electricity building up burst outward from his crotch, encompassing his entire body.  He convulsed as every muscle in his body tensed, control lost to the pleasure coursing through his body.  His eyes rolled back into this head as it was jerked up and then slammed back down onto his pillow.  His gritted teeth showed through lips pulled back in mindless primitive sensations, nearly biting through the pillowcase.  Harry Potter ceased to be, ceased to exist.  Only the pleasure and the animal borne through the skin remained.

 

But the beast is quick to roar, quick to snap, and inevitably quick to retire, leaving only the lingering fire along the nerves of Harry's now sweating flesh.

 

Harry's eyes fluttered open a few minutes later.  Or, at least he thought it was a few minutes later.  He couldn't be sure, but had the uneasy sensation of lost time.  Did he pass out?  For how long?

 

He wrestled out of his drenched shirt and used it clean up the sticky white juice covering his chest and stomach.  A few drops had even reached his eyebrows.  _I'll have to work on my aim next time_ , he thought with an exhausted gasp.

 

Harry lie in bed for several more minutes, now hesitant to leave the erotic enclosure of his canopy for the real world beyond.  Once the rush of adrenaline and hormones subsided, the more subtle (but more lingering) guilt and anxiety returned.

 

As Harry climbed out of bed, he fumbled for his glasses, his eyes downcast as he was certain that the world could read his actions through them.  His heart stopped and his mouth fell open - he saw four pairs of stocking feet standing by the small coal stove in the center of the room.  All facing Harry.  After a breathless moment, he looked up, horrified to be under their scrutiny, dreading the merciless teasing sure to follow.

 

To his surprise, no ribbing was forthcoming.  It was quiet.  Very quiet.  _Too quiet_ , thought Harry, the only thought coming from his frozen brain.  He looked up at the faces of his friends.

 

Neville looked traumatized, his eyes jumping around the room, desperate for something else (anything else!) to focus on, on the edge of flying out of the room.  Dean was shyly embarrassed, half glancing at his own feet.  And, Ron.  Oh, poor Ron.  His face shone with a mixture of horror and unacknowledged longing.  But Seamus had a large knowing grin on his face, threatening to join his ears together, squinting up his eyes even further than usual.

 

"Blimey, Harry!" he nearly shouted. "That was something, to be sure.  You make more noise than Dean does when we - ow!"  Dean's foot had slipped and kicked Seamus in the shin.  Even through his dark mocha skin, Dean's blush radiated out with heat.  Seamus' grin faded not an iota.  "You could teach me a thing or two, and no mistake!"

 

Harry turned away from the boys, not ready to face the rest of what he knew Seamus would not let go of.  His eyes grew wide and his blush deepened as he saw the sign that had been pasted over his trunk:  "Property of Hairy Palmer."

 

A "Happy Ending", definitely.

 


End file.
